Mickey Spillane - The Killing Man

Pat grunted and said, "Everything he does is interesting."

Bradley simply ignored him and said, "You testified at a trial as to the possible inaccuracy of the polygraph test. In fact, you gave a demonstration using an authorized operator of the device and succeeded in lying without being detected."

"There were two others who did the same thing, Mr. Bradley. If you know how to do it there's no trick to it at all."

"The State lost that case, I might add."

"So be it," I said. "What's that got to do with now?"

"Could you possibly do it under sodium pentothal?"

They were playing with me now and I was getting ticked off. "I suppose there could be a trick to that too."

All of them watched me, waiting.

I said, "Why are you so interested in nailing this loony?"

It was Lewis Ferguson who looked to Pat for confirmation and when Pat nodded slightly, he said, "This one . . . this Penta murdered one of our men. You seem to have enough . . . familiarization with police departments to understand how we feel about this."

"I know how the cops feel about it."

"We're no different."

"Cops don't have the State Department backing them up," I said.

Bradley gave me an enigmatic smile. Those State guys had a thing with them that made me want to belt them right in the mouth. "The agent who was killed was carrying some very valuable information. If he gave it up before he died, the security of the United States could be compromised."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, I've heard that 'compromised' line a million times. What the hell can one man carry that could destroy us? You know damn well nobody can afford to start tossing nukes around and live to brag about it, so how the hell do we get compromised?"

"I'm not referring to the big nations, Mr. Hammer. Some of the Third World countries have nuclear capabilities nobody likes to speak about. They may not have the same moral attitudes we have."

"So why kill your agent?"

"Because he knew which country was planning to let the first bird fly. He was about to deliver that information."

"Damn," I said, "here I was thinking about how altruistic you were about your agent getting killed. Things are starting to blossom out."

"Mr. Hammer," Ferguson said. "Did you lie to your abductors about Penta?"

I shrugged. It was better than words. Finally I told them, "I don't know. I was under the influence of drugs."

They were very polite and thanked me. The Ice Lady looked at me and her eyes were as cool as her dress. She turned just a little bit and the fold of her neckline opened enough to show the fullness of her breasts, snowy white against icy blue. I didn't try to hide my appreciation, and let her see the edges of my teeth under a smile.

Pat and I looked at each other in the empty room and he said, "Want to go have coffee?"

"Sure. Think we can get Ray Wilson to go with us?"

"He's always glad to go anywhere." He pushed back his chair. "What do you want him for, anyway?"

I said, "You reminded me that he was in the intelligence unit."

"Fourteen years' worth."

"Didn't he head up the operation when Qaddafi threatened personal attacks on Reagan?"

"He headed up the New York command post. Incidentally, he's our liaison with some international counterparts." He frowned, looking at me quizzically. "Why?"

"Maybe he can straighten out a few things for me."

"Beautiful. Never say New York's Finest doesn't do its damnedest to keep the public happy."

"Come on, pal, I pay my taxes," I said.

"Don't forget your license fees."

"Never," I grinned. "Now, do we go downstairs together or one at a time?"

Pat shook his head at me. "After all these years, this department has given up on you and me."

"Not the DA's office, though."

"Ah, them," Pat said. "They come and go with the elections. Just don't underplay Candace Amory, buddy."

Musingly, I said, "The Ice Lady."

"Yeah, her."

"She's going to supper with me," I told him.

"Bullshit." He seemed startled. "When did this happen?"

"As soon as I ask her, kiddo."

Ray Wilson was already at a table when we got to the deli, a half-eaten pastrami sandwich and an empty coffee cup in front of him. "Couldn't wait for you guys," he explained. "Want coffee?" We both nodded and he held up two fingers. Before we were in the booth the waiter had the coffee down. The old cop went back to his sandwich, had another bite and added, "Nobody ever asks me out for anything unless they want something."

"How about women?" I suggested.

"Boy oh boy, do they want something. My apartment, my salary, my pension."

"Just because you're good-looking?"

"Man," he leered, "I may not be a beauty, but I sure got something that is. Well trained. Knows all the tricks. But that's not what you want to know about. So what's up?"

"Mike's been thinking," Pat said.

He nodded and waited.

I said, "You know about me being mugged. I mean, classically mugged?"

"Pat told me," he said casually.

"Two of them questioned me about Penta. Their voices were accented, but at the time I was pretty cloudy from the shot they had given me and didn't try to place the inflections. Every time I think back now I seem to come to one conclusion. Those accents were faked."

"Well?"

My coffee was too hot to drink, so I sipped at it. "What's your opinion on Penta?"

Wilson gave Pat another of those looks and Pat gave him the "go ahead" sign with his hands. He said to me, "I assume you're asking me if the guys who grabbed you were from some government agency?"

"You got it."

"Why?"

"Their method, their attitude. All that was pretty well structured."

"Hell, Mike, even a bunch of punks could do that."

"Would punks want Penta?"

Pat held up his hand and interrupted. "Suppose as a mob hit man, DiCica thought he had killed Penta and didn't. That still leaves him open to be knocked off."

"Where does that put me then?" I asked Pat.

"In the middle, pal, right in the frigging middle. If you know anything about Penta, they wanted to know about it."

"Then why did they leave my gun right there on the floor? No punk is going to walk away from a piece like that."

Wilson let out a derisive laugh. "With the pieces we get in off the street, nobody would want an antique .45 like yours. Nowadays the hoods opt for Uzis, .357 Magnums and anything untraceable. A registered piece like your Colt could mean trouble."

"Right," I agreed. "But if they did come from some agency everything would still fit."

"True." Wilson finished his sandwich, wiped his hands on a napkin and lit up a butt. "All you wanted was my opinion?"

"That's all."

"Okay, they weren't hoods. They had some intelligence going for them. They knew about the hospital, they had the car preparked, ready for a quick getaway. Sodium pentothal or a quick-acting tranquilizer could be easy to get, but using Smiley's garage meant plenty of preknowledge. One other thing, after you damaged two of their guys nobody bothered to lay anything on you. That's a real professional attitude."

He stopped, took a long drag on his butt and let the smoke drift toward the ceiling, watching it laze its way upward. "So they were government personnel?"

"I didn't say which government. Or whose," he replied easily. "Besides, all you wanted was an opinion."

"There were FBI and CIA troops probing for more of the same an hour ago."

"Carmody and Ferguson," he stated.

"Those are the ones."

"Old spooks. I know them. Good guys but dull. They were real busy during the Black Panther days. Later Ferguson spent a lot of time overseas helping smooth over some of the blunders we made."

"You're real current, Ray."

He winked at Pat. "Interdepartmental cooperation, they call it."